Your misery and hate will kill us (so paint it black and take it back)
by ibuzoo
Summary: She never knew the stars had a flavour until she kissed him. (they taste like self-destruction and ancient fire, ambitions and ambrosia and she savours it, licks salt crystals of her lips)


**Your misery and hate will kill us (so paint it black and take it back)**

**Prompt:** Night

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Modern Setting, nightclub, nightmares, drugs, psychotropic drugs, hallucinations, hallucinogens

Word count: 1411

**A/N:** I could not resist to write a second part of 'Rasasvada' and so here we are. You don't need to know the first part of the story to read this but it would explain a lot about the Children of the Stars and how this universe works.

* * *

><p><strong>o.<strong>

There are many clubs in London.

The city is a maze of old skyscrapers with brick panelling, a warren of doors with back rooms full of smoke and shadows and sex, rooms as dark as a starless sky, basements where dreams have died, full of people with no homes or hopes or anything to fight for.

There are many clubs in London.

* * *

><p><strong>i.<strong>

The invitation arrives in a dark green velvet envelope with a silver seal that holds the ends together and she eyes the way a snake coils around the skull on the sigil while alchemistic symbols form a circle in the background. The letter inside is the same colour as the envelope and the words contrast in bright silver that breaks on certain ink stains to reflect in different kinds of colours - like a kaleidoscope, like the stars.

She throws the parchment in the dustbin.

* * *

><p><strong>ii.<strong>

_(the bouncer of the club follows her around to keep her reminded, three days in a row, wears black leather gloves that match his jacket and each time she spots him her wrist starts to itch, to cut and she watches the stars at night, counts them, knows that she can't run)_

* * *

><p><strong>iii.<strong>

"What can I bring you, deary?", Bellatrix drawls and puts two shots in the Sex on the Beach, reaches it over the counter but Hermione declines, pushes it back and snorts, clicks her perfectly manicured fingernails on the glassy surface. Bellatrix' eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, covered in thick mascara which emphasise the leopard pattern in copper and brown colours on the lids of her eyes, and Hermione watches fascinated, almost entranced as the spotlights cast their blueish shimmer on the shiny bracelets on her arm, refract periwinkle and tiffany blue. As soon as the music starts to blast and the beat enters her veins her foot starts to click to the rhythm of the beat and a second later she starts to sway with her whole body, licks the salt off her lips as a hand rests on her shoulder, a breath graces her cheek, a virile yet pleasant scent that lingers in her nose while a body presses on her back, a dark presence that weights hard on her shoulders, murmurs in her ear, "Hermione."

_We're all beloved children of the stars._

She doesn't turn around.

_(neither does she drink anything that night)_

* * *

><p><strong>iv.<strong>

Draco shows up at her flat a week later and carries a giant package wrapped in dark green velvet with an enormous silver ribbon that graces the middle, holding a single card in the same colour - it reads Donna Karan.

"I can't accept this," she immediately snaps but Draco doesn't wait a second, pushes the package right in her waiting hands and sighs, nearly exasperated, "I'm afraid he insists." Awful seconds rush by and neither of them wants to back down so they stare into each other's eyes, wait for the first blink. Surprisingly it's Hermione who looks away and she opens the door, steps aside and nods inside, "Alright, come in."

He smirks but follows her nevertheless.

* * *

><p><strong>v.<strong>

The script is elegant but fast with hard edges, almost scratching with a certain kind of flair and Hermione reads the card at night with the dim light of her reading light, over and over again while her eyes cast glances to the obviously inflated dress, a masterpiece of dark navy floating silk and sheets of tulle with little crystals on the hem - a hint of Haute Couture, a hint of the starry heaven, a hint of perfection.

Tomorrow, 10 p.m.

Hermione's heart beat just stops.

* * *

><p><strong>vi.<strong>

She's caught momentarily between a boy with a lip ring and another one that presses up against her back like a lover and her breasts are pressed against lip ring boy's chest and each time he speaks the metal of the ring scrapes past her earlobe and leaves little goosebumps in her neck - she pushes aside and watches as both of them fall forward into each other's arms and then they're kissing like she has never been there.

_(perhaps she wasn't)_

She makes her way back to the bar and orders a Bloody Mary, downs it in one go and licks lime and tomato off her top lip, breathes in the cloud of smoke that lingers over the place that tastes like tobacco and weed and other sweet tastes that she can't name, something like cinnamon and sea salt that catches in the back of her mind. The beat of the music is thrumming up from the floor and the liquids in the glasses tremble like they're caught in an earthquake, wild and untamed, the same way her hair falls around her face and curls around long delicate fingers that play with single strands. She watches him with heavy eyes, dark and seductive until his grey fades and pure lust remains.

He offers her a drink _(bright powder blue with turquoise crystals in it)_, something she never saw before and she takes it, drinks, falls.

* * *

><p><strong>vii.<strong>

She never knew the stars had a flavour until she kissed him.

_(they taste like self-destruction and ancient fire, ambitions and ambrosia and she savours it, licks salt crystals of her lips)_

She wakes up in silken sheets, royal blue and his ceiling is covered in stars, a celestial map with burning dots on dark background. Tom lies naked beside her, still sleeping and he looks almost innocent, harmless, a nightmare that fades back into a dream.

She elopes right after.

* * *

><p><strong>viii.<strong>

There's not a single note in her letterbox the next day, not the week after and she starts to feel stardust on her tongue, reaches for the lights on the dark sky at night, stargazed. It's not the beat that she misses, neither the trip that busted her mind open again and again - it's Tom and the scent of old forgotten lives on his lips, the taste of scintillating stars and salty crystals, something magical like stardust that clings to his pores and burns in her lungs, etches, corrodes.

_We're all beloved children of the stars._

_We are,_ she thinks.

_We are._

* * *

><p><strong>ix.<strong>

The music is still playing when Hermione steps into the club far after midnight and the beat rocks through her in a vague, distant sense that's not quite connected to the way her eyes are roaming the room for him. He's already waiting at the bar and the smirk on his face is entirely predatory and not human at all and she can't be expected to resist so she sinks her teeth into Tom's jawline and he tastes of salt and smoke and sickly stardust. His fingers dig almost painfully in Hermione's side and she breathes, pushes away and takes the glass he hands her.

_(celestial blue with cyan crystals or is it iris, is it royal?)_

She downs it at once and Tom tugs her hair, rips it for another kiss.

* * *

><p><strong>x.<strong>

Silver glitter covers her body almost as if she bathed in stardust and she wakes from her dream, rolls around in royal blue sheets until her eyes rest on his ceiling, the constellation Orion right before her eyes and she starts to name the stars she knows by name - _Meissa, Alnitak, Mintaka, Bellatrix_ - when Tom shifts right beside her, grasps his arm around her waist and murmurs, deep rumble on her shoulder, "We're all beloved children of the stars."

She kisses him, whispers, eyes bright and shining, "We are."

Who could dare to defy us?

* * *

><p><strong>xi.<strong>

It's not a dream.

It's real.

* * *

><p><strong>xii.<strong>

There are many clubs in London.

The city is a maze of old skyscrapers with brick panelling, a warren of doors with back rooms full of smoke and shadows and sex, rooms as dark as a starless sky and basements where dreams have died, full of people with no homes or hopes or anything to fight for.

But there's a special place, a staircase to luxury basement rooms, carpets that set the stage for bars with spotlights and stairs up to penthouse suites and twenty foot dance floors that reflect bright neon lights on white marble tiles. The people are faceless, genderless, half-seen shades of bodies that shift amongst the curling shadows - far too close for comfort - and the bar peddles crates of booze with golden labels and strawberry Kir Royal floods the glasses one by one.

There are many clubs in London.

But there's just one Neverland.


End file.
